


the losing side

by AnneCumberbatch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcoholic John Watson, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Caring Sherlock, Depressed John Watson, Ficlet, Gen, Post S4, very short I'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 11:37:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21298829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnneCumberbatch/pseuds/AnneCumberbatch
Summary: John can't seem to breathe anymore, let alone look Sherlock in the face and say "I'm so sorry, please don't stop trying. I love you." He couldn't tell if he hated Sherlock or loved him more than he thought was possible.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 22





	the losing side

“John, I think that’s enough.” Sherlock hovered just behind John’s chair, his hand resting against the tartan fabric. 

The lights were off in the living room and the sun had since set, leaving dark shadows in the corners of the room, crawling towards the doorway to the kitchen, towards John. John closed his eyes against them and shook his head, the ice cube rattled in the glass he dangled in his left hand. “Not yet.”

“John, you’re not going to fix this with drink.”   
  
“Fuck you.” 

Sherlock moved his hand to brush against John’s shoulder. “John, please.” 

John flinched at the contact and shrugged him away. “Leave me alone. I’ll drink if I want to.” 

“That’s your fourth tonight. Mrs. Hudson is bringing Rosie up in thirty minutes.” 

“Then you can take her for all I care.” John swung the glass up in a mocking cheers, his eyes still pressed closed. “Take her like you’ve taken everything else from my fucking life.” 

Sherlock froze behind the chair. 

John wiped a hand over his face. “Just take her and go.” 

There was a moment of silence, before Sherlock’s quiet voice reverberated behind him. “As you wish.” Sherlock straightened, moved away from John, and went downstairs. 

Once the flat was quiet with his absence, John let out a ragged sob of an exhale and dug his fist into the arm of his chair. With a sharp inhale, he raised the glass to his lips and gulped down the caustic liquid. He sank back into his chair and rolled his head to the side, looking at the fireplace, cold and empty. Memories filled him of times when it was roaring and bright, flooding the room with warmth and encouraging affection. The many happy evenings sat in the two chairs opposite, reading, talking, or doing nothing at all. The memories of these evenings were fraying at the edges, falling so far into the past that John wasn’t sure if they had actually happened or if he had created them, fictionalized them. That relaxed, comfortable behavior was so far from how they were now. The stiffness, the awkward silences, the avoidance of eye-contact, the drinking. John knew he now did a lot of drinking. But as much as he drank, the liquid did nothing to dull the empty ache in his chest, the place where Sherlock had once been until Mary replaced him, the place Mary had slowly been vacating and Sherlock re-filling until John had cradled Mary’s violently dead corpse in his arms and felt his body empty of all feeling and anything resembling sentiment. Sentiment. Poisonous sentiment. Sherlock had been right. Sherlock was always right, fucking damn him. Sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side. And John Watson was always losing. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, questions, critiques are always welcome. Thank you for reading!


End file.
